


Under Repair

by Sock_Lobster



Series: Loosely [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anal Fisting, Anonymous Sex, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Ritual Sex, Stan Pines? More like Stan Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 09:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9601628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sock_Lobster/pseuds/Sock_Lobster
Summary: A few years after Ford goes through the portal, Stan's feeling lonely enough to try joining the Gravity Falls Men's Lodge. No one tells him beforehand what the initiation ritual is supposed to involve.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic due to an anon meme conversation. I complained, ["Where's all the six-fingered fisting?"](http://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/240833.html?thread=1341867713#cmt1341867713), someone's autocorrect joined the fray, and in the end it's not even six-fingered fisting. Just the normal five. Such is life.
> 
> Check out the end notes if you need more info on how dub-con-y and implied incest-y it is. Not beta-read.

It’s been a few years since Ford disappeared, and the Murder Hut is now officially the Mystery Shack, and it’s doing okay. Not _great_ , not enough to say, hire some theoretical physicists to come tell Stan what the hell he’s supposed to do with the giant interdimensional portal in the basement, but he’s got food. The mortgage is paid. The locals are warming up to him, in a way. They don’t treat him like a recluse weirdo, but they’re also not running him out of town with pitchforks. It’s an improvement. Overall, things are good as they can be. Stan may be legally dead and his brother may be lost forever, but you know, food’s nice.

Maybe having someone to talk to would be even nicer, and that’s what brings Stan to the Gravity Falls community center on a Friday night he could be trying and failing to teach himself String Theory or whatever. “Welcome to the Gravity Falls Men’s Lodge (Lodge Under Repair)” says a dry erase board near the door.

The dry erase board say _nothing_ about weird sexual initiation rituals. Stan feels like that’s something they really ought to give a guy a heads up on.

“Wait, run that by me again,” Stan says. “You want to do _what_ with a hand now?”

“It’s very simple, Mr. Pines--” says the guy who looks like someone banged a gremlin without a condom and couldn’t get help in time.

Stan musters some dryness and says, “Please, call me Stan.” He thinks it’s the least someone can do if they’re going to talk about what he thinks they’re talking about.

“--a lodge is a union of trust and friendship,” the guy continues, practiced. Rehearsed like the lamest cons always sound. “And we’re simply asking that you accept a hand in friendship and trust.”

“See, that I get. That part sounds fine.” Stan shifts uncomfortably in his metal folding chair, looks around the circle of matching chairs that he’s pretty sure are still in place from an AA meeting or a Stitch ‘n Bitch, and finds nothing but deadly serious faces meeting his gaze. “What I’m not getting is the ass part.”

“Trust and friendship must live within a lodge member,” says Daryl Blubs, whom Stan recognizes is old enough to be a man in the legal sense, but he’s uncertain of his inclusion in a “men’s lodge”. “You take them deep inside you.”

Stan stares at him. “I… don’t even know how to respond to that,” he admits after a few moments of mental floundering.

“With grace and acceptance, if you truly wish to be a lodge member,” says another guy Stan vaguely recognizes as a council member or something.

“And if I can’t, is there an alternative? Like, could I try accepting a hand in my mouth instead? I could probably fit that.”

“No,” twelve voices all answer in unison, and Stan’s not really surprised. If all of them have done it, then… well, there’s really no undoing it, is there. Once you’re in the “I let myself get punch-fucked in the ass for a social gathering” club, you’re not about to let the new guy have it easier, are you?

“Right,” Stan says. “So uh, I guess I’m just not… ready in my... innermost being to accept this offering of friendship and trust, so maybe I should just--”

“That’s understandable,” councilman says. “Not all are ready immediately. It is a mark of a true man, after all.”

Stan can’t help himself. “What is that? Are you saying I’m not a man?”

His answer is a cascade of shrugs, like fans doing the wave in a stadium to cheer their team, only a bunch of pervs in a community center implying things about manhood being tied to hands in asses. It’s a shitty metaphor. So sue him.

“Because I am plenty manly,” Stan says. “I’m just not, you know, the sharing type.”

“Then we’re going to have to ask you to leave the lodge until you feel capable of it,” says the possibly-an-elected-official-what-the-hell.

“It’s the community center,” Stan says, to get some of his own back.

“We’re under repair!” twelve voices say, once again channeling a mob, and Stan knows mobs. He’s run away from enough of them.

“Right. Okay. _Later_.” 

Stan exits the community center into the brisk March night and thinks, _Sheesh, like I’d ever be desperate enough for buddies to do that._

 

The first Friday in May finds Stan facedown in the middle of the community center.

He’s trying not to think about it too much, but the blindfold is sorta killing his ability to distract himself. At least there’s a cushion. It’s rough and smells like someone’s cat, probably from a couch. Stan’s gripping one seam with his fingertips and doing his best to count the threads he feels. He’s on 82 by the time the speech about community and camaraderie and all that shit’s over with.

Then the council guy wraps it up with, “Now, lodge brothers, we draw lots to see who will initiate brother Stanford.”

Stan suddenly feels like he’s gonna vomit. He even begins to push himself upright because no, this is not what he wants. Thinking about Ford, doing this under Ford’s _name_ for lodge “brotherhood”? Stan’s just gonna have to suck it up and be lonely damnit. This is--

A hand comes down on his back. It’s not pressing; it’s not pushing. Stan could easily fight it off. It’s just a hand touching him, but it gives him pause.

“You may begin!” says council guy, and he’s far enough away that Stan can at least eliminate him. He’s not sure if that’s bad or good, given the other possibilities.

They’d said they would draw lots, and then no one would actually watch whoever had to do the do. Stan’s supposed to trust them on this, which is a sign of friendship, and frankly, he did two shots of really terrible whisky before even coming here and another gulp from a flask just inside the door. He hadn’t asked nearly as many questions about how this was going to work as he’d needed to because of that.

But the hand on Stan’s spine is already slowly moving downwards, and Stan hates himself because he’s _not getting up_. The problem is, it feels nice, kinda. The hand is warm, not wet or too rough, and it’s being gentle.

People don’t… People don’t really touch Stan all that much these days.

Sure, he has the usual level of human contact used when conning someone into buying a cheap tchotchke, a hand on the shoulder here, a handshake there, but that’s all business. It’s all on Stan to initiate. It’s been that way since… at least since before Ford disappeared, possibly all the way back to Marilyn.

As soon as this is over, Stan’s gotta find a way to get back on the horse. He’s still got it, he’s sure. Running the Shack’s improved his already excellent skills at selling worthless crap to people, so why not sell a big pile of worthless crap to a hot babe?

Not that that solves this problem. Stan doesn’t know how to solve this problem. He doesn’t know _what_ his problem is, because he doesn’t move when the warm hand reaches his ass. He doesn’t move when a second hand joins the first there. He doesn’t move, fight, or flee when those hands spread his cheeks. He just whimpers and presses his nose hard into the rough cushion below him, focuses on anything but the sense of being exposed.

There’s definitely an eau de cat about the cushion fabric. Stan’s not a big fan of cats. They think they’re so much better than everyone else, he can tell. If a man’s gotta have a non-food animal in his life, it had better be one that worsh--

Something cold and wet is touching him, and Stan knows it’s a finger. It’s a finger covered in something that’s gonna make it easier for that finger to go up his ass, and it’s gonna go up his ass because Stan isn’t going to stop it. Time to face the facts here. Thoughts on cats won’t save him. He’s being asked by the universe, by the Gravity Falls Men’s Lodge, and by his own brain, “Hey, Stan, are you really so pathetic that you’re going to let yourself get finger fucked by an unidentified man in front of other people just so they’ll be your friends? Worse yet, are you even going to enjoy it because at least someone’s paying attention to you?”

The answer to the first is a sadly resounding “Yes,” and the second is an embarrassed “Maybe.” Stan’s dick is even paying a faintly humiliated bit of attention, but at least it’s pressed to the cushion and probably no one can tell. If they’re breaking their word and looking, that is, and Stan just doesn't trust that they’re not. Probably someone is, other than his unknown partner. There’s realistically at least two people watching right now as Stan basically grovels for acceptance.

The finger swirls around, like that’s gonna help. Stan can feel how tight he is. There’s no way this isn’t going to start hurting soon, and maybe the pain will be a good thing. He won’t be able to enjoy this if it hurts, and there’s no way a whole hand _isn’t_ gonna hurt. Maybe it’ll even be enough for him to grow a spine and get up and out of here.

Now there’s pressure, light, moving pressure, and Stan’s caught. He thinks he can make himself relax, just a little, but maybe he should--

“Shhh,” someone whispers, just above him. It’s gotta be the guy, but it’s pure whisper and Stan can’t make out anything like a voice to identify with. “Shhh,” the mystery man (Hah hah.) says again, like Stan’s an animal or child to be soothed. It should be insulting, but somehow even that’s nice. Whoever this is, they are making an effort.

Stan tries to relax, and the tip of the finger is inside him, just like that. Then Stan gasps, and there it is, finger all the way in. He can feel the knuckles of the other fingers along his crease, pressing lightly against that same spot he likes to press when he’s jerking off. The finger inside him is quickly warming with the heat of his body, and when it starts to piston gently in and out of him, Stan huffs out the hideous lovechild of a laugh and a whimper.

He _is_ going to like this, isn’t he? Fuck, he’s a sad, sad man.

The finger’s fucking him now, that’s really the only word for it. Fucking. Stan’s getting gently but surely fucked by a guy’s pointer finger. He can’t tell if that’s gayer than sucking a guy’s cock, because it’s not like he did that out of a desire to suck a guy’s cock anymore than he’s doing this out of a desire to get fucked by a guy’s hand.

There’s been circumstances for both cases. Then it was because it was what the guy on laundry duty in prison número dos had wanted in exchange for looking the other way as Stan escaped with the dirty wash water. Now it’s because this is supposedly going to make him friends.

It’s not like he _wants_ to be doing this. It just happens to be feel better than he thought it would. The rhythm's doing it for him, and Stan’s having to clench his toes and really dig into the fabric of the cushion to keep from helping in any way. He’s sure there’s a line between lying there and taking it and thrusting in tandem and moaning. At least that’s one line he doesn’t mean to cross anytime soon.

He does, however, gasp again even harder, when between one thrust and the next, the single finger becomes two. Two fingers in his ass, and Stan’s not doing anything to stop it. They stretch him, his body opening even as he’s got to close his teeth around the back of one hand. It doesn’t hurt. It’s… it’s erotic, and Stan doesn’t hate it. He hates himself for being here, hates the idiots who decided this made a good hazing ritual, but the fingers? They’re doing something for him.

Maybe he should have jerked off before coming here, in addition to the drinking. His cock’s fully hard now, and the fabric beneath it is way too rough for a man’s tender parts. It’s borderline painful, but just short of uncomfortable enough to make him move. If he moves, he might not stop moving.

“Shhh,” the man says again, and Stan doesn’t know what he’s talking about until the two fingers crook on the next thrust, and Stan bites his own hand hard to keep from moaning.

 _Fuck. Fuck, Do it again,_ Stan doesn’t say. _How much practice at this have you had, exactly?_ he doesn’t ask. _Please,_ he doesn’t beg.

He doesn’t have to beg, at least, because it happens again. And again. And it’s only after a few more _again_ s that Stan realizes it’s three fingers now. Three out of five, and he’s… fuck, he’s gonna start humping the couch cushion any moment now.

A hand comes down on his back again, the free one not involved in making Stan rethink what sex is supposed to feel like, and this time he is pushed down. Held very steady as all the fingers leave completely.

Stan’s going to call what leaves his throat a sigh. It’s not, but if he admits what it was, he’s admitting to crossing his own line already.

Something squelches behind him. It jars Stan enough that when the fingers return, rewetted and cold, he’s slightly tensed. He gets shushed, and right away the fingers thrust back in. No stop. All go. Back to fucking him, and Stan can’t help letting his legs spread a little more, just to be helpful. He’s supposed to be making friends here, and friends are helpful, right?

Yeah, he’s not buying that either. It’s not his best sales pitch, admittedly, but he is working under pressure. Stupidly good pressure.

Three turns out to have been easier than he’d have guessed, stretching but not painful, but when Stan feels a fourth finger, the pinkie finger trying to nudge its way inside him, he does clench suddenly. Some part of his brain not already won over by pure and simple fucking reacts to the prospect of more with a fuck no. Things grind to a halt. 

The man tries shushing again, going slow. He tries petting, up and down along Stan’s spine. Stan’s trying, really, but he’s gotten stuck on a mental loop of “four means the palm, four means the palm” and it’s killing the mood.

The man sighs, Stan can hear the exhale and feel it on his skin. He’s sure that _“Well, nevermind. Looks like you can’t even do this right, Stanley”_ comes next, even if that's not the name anyone here would use. Even if the voice he hears it in isn't coming from anywhere anytime soon.

Instead, the hand on his back slides around his side, between him and the cushion, and grabs his dick.

A few warm strokes, and Stan’s too gone to care that handjobs weren’t on the proposed menu. Technically, it’s a step down from the other kind of hand activity lined up. More appetizer than entree, if things were going in a more reasonable order.

He is moaning now. It’s okay. It’s not like he had any dignity left. His internal masseuse for the evening is more than capable of jerking him off, and that’s more than enough cause for the three-finger fucking to continue more smoothly than moments before. The combination of sensations is frighteningly close to the best thing he’s ever felt, and Stan’s going to have to learn how to do this to himself.

The pinkie’s back before he knows it, and this time he doesn’t clench up, and really, things are going just fine for a few moments. Pinkie fingers are the smallest, afterall, so he’s not forced that much more open. At first. Knuckles become a presence to be reckoned with soon, and far too soon after Stan remembers this, they’re in him. There’s just the thumb left outside, running up from his stretched hole to his tailbone.

Stan swears, frozen in place. He’s not in pain exactly, though it burns. Through the handjob, he got his knees under him without thinking about it, better to arch and better to thrust back and forth, and now he’s fighting the instinct to try spreading his knees further apart, maybe reach behind himself and pull his at his own skin, sweet fuck, anything to ease the pressure.

Both hands are still moving, still doing their jobs, but Stan’s not sure he can get into it anymore, even if with his dick in on the action. Every slide in and out of him, he feel like he’s going to be split apart and they’re not even done yet. Any moment now, Stan’s going to start channeling bad pornos and whimper about how it’s “too much, _too much_ ”, even though he’s not a sexy porn actress stroking, among other things, someone’s ego. If he was, he wouldn’t be having this much trouble, honestly. Stan has a newfound respect for the Ginger Charms and Mimi Ryders of the world. Those ladies are professionals and Stanley Pines is a rank amatuer. 

He can’t even get his body to agree with itself whether this is terrible or not. Parts of him are still enjoying the ride. His dick’s a disloyal traitor. Whoever’s giving it a good squeeze is its new best friend, no matter how many times Stan’s done it before, but Stan knew that already. His ass is on some edge between _great_ and _awful_. The whole rest of his body is frozen, clenched chorus of no, no, no, and that’s not stopping the hand fucking him steadily harder and faster.

Stan wonders if this could ever be completely good, if he could ever with practice or something get to a place where he lies back and enjoys it, in theory. All conflicting signals aside, some stretches (Hah hah, Stan hates himself) of this have been overly enjoyable.

He’s probably going to come soon. He doesn’t think he can stop it in any way, but he’s thinking about whether what comes next will be better or worse if he comes first. It’s a toss up.

At least he’s almost there. It’s only five fingers, four of them down. Just one more digit, and he’s done. No one said anything about having to endure it for long. He just has to keep his cool, grit his teeth and soon it’s over. He’ll be a lodge member and who knows, somewhere down the road he might be peaking at the next new guy getting fucked for friendship and comparing how much he loses his cool.

Stan tries to keep this in mind. Everyone else has done it; he can. Just open up. Be a porn star for tonight. Take it like a champ.

He hasn’t come yet when the thumb begins rubbing with intent on his stretched opening. It’s a hell of a sensation, and if it wasn’t the prelude to even more, it would be nice. Stan absolutely could get used to all of this in better circumstances, and he doesn’t want to think about what that implies.

“Just do it,” he says, face still pressed to the couch cushion even as his ass is in the air. He probably looks like a slut, and that’s encouraging in a way. Be a porn star, Stan. Do it and people will like you.

The man fucking him pauses in his motions, just for a moment. Then the hand on his dick resumes, faster, tighter, really giving it good and almost too hard. Stan wants to say, “Hey, don’t pull it off” but apparently that’s just the diversion.

The thumb’s pressing in, pushing hard at Stan’s already filled hole and not stopping for the resistance there. It just keeps going.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ ” Stan hisses. His eyes are clenched shut beneath the blindfold, and still he can’t stop the tears that begin welling in them. He’s gonna start sobbing any moment, he’s sure. Taking it up the ass, crying about it, and still getting off because the hand on his dick isn’t letting up and the fingers already inside him are undulating in the right spot. He’s doing a great impression of a porn star right now, might as well lean into it. “Oh _god_ ,” he moans.

Shushed yet again, and it’s for the best Stan’s never supposed to know who’s doing this to him, because he might just punch the guy after this is over with for all the damn shushes. He doesn’t need to be calmed down or quieted. He needs this thumb in him all the way, so he can get this over with.

“Just--” Stan begins, and that’s when the meaty base of the thumb and palm shoves into him all at once, and he sobs with it. The only reason he doesn’t scream is lack of breath, and he’s coming, his traitor dick shooting off onto the same cushion that this hands have ripped a hole in at the seam. Stan sympathises with the cushion. He, too, feels ripped apart and like he’s going to need to be sewn back together after this, possibly starting with his brain.

It’s too much. Everything is too much, and it seems like it takes forever for Stan to stop coming. Even once he has, he’s still _crying_ quietly like a wimp.

He tries calming down, but his brain is being unhelpful as ever. He can’t focus on anything soothing. Thoughts like _“Well at least it’s over”_ and _“I’m not paying to replace this shit cushion”_ come and go, and somewhere in the fray, _“Well, what if it had been six?”_ sparks up because Stan really, truly honestly _hates_ himself.

The hand inside him is very still. The hand around his cock strokes him a couple more times, and then lets go. It reverses its journey and comes back to his back, smoothing up and down his skin. He is once again being treated like an animal. Who knows, maybe he is one. In place of an afterglow, Stan’s feeling increasingly like crap. Used, stupid, pathetic--

“Shit,” he says as the hand in him suddenly becomes no longer in him. He collapses down to the floor, his knees sliding back out from under him. Goddamnit. He aches. He’s gooey and sticky and he has no idea how he’s getting back home tonight. He’s not sure he’s going to be able to sit up, let alone stand, walk out of this stupid community center, and drive. Maybe one of his new “friends” will get him a blanket and everyone will leave him here to feel terrible in peace.

The guy who just fist-fucked him pats his ass. Stan considers ripping off the blindfold and punching him, but he’s not sure he can move yet. The most he manages is to rub his blindfolded eyes over the back of his wrist, cleaning up the tears there in case anyone’s going to ask him to remove it soon.

A blanket does come down on him, and it startles him bad enough he actually manages to move a bit. And yeah, that. That smarts. Stan’s not going to be forgetting this any time soon. He forces himself into a shaky kneeling position and wraps the blanket tighter around him. His ass hurts. His nose is snotty. He’s a sticky, naked mess under a blanket, but at least he’s in, right? This is definitely the way to make true and lasting friendships. Or lifelong enemies. Stan can’t sort out which one he’s feeling inclined towards.

There’s a whisper and some shuffling behind and to the right of him. Stan can’t make it out.

Someone clears their throat loudly, though, and then it’s the council guy speaking again. “The initiation is over!” he says with what Stan considers too much glee. “Our hand of friendship--” Oh god, someone kill him. “--has been accepted and met with joy--” Stan doesn’t care which who gets killed. Someone kill _someone_. “--and now we welcome our new brother Stanfo-”

“Fuck you,” Stan says. He’s kinda surprised with it himself, but there you go.

“Excuse me?”

“Fuck. You.” Stan wobbles, from his legs to his lip, but he stands up and pulls the blindfold off. He tightens the blanket around him like a robe and does his best impression of a Roman emperor. He probably looks like his mother in a muumuu, but it’s the fake confidence that counts. “Fuck every last one of you. I don’t care about your stupid boy’s club and you can all keep on fucking each other for all I fucking care. I’m outta here.”

He then storms out like a Roman emperor, barefoot and only stopping to grab his clothes in one haphazard bundle. Walking’s a pain, sitting in the driver’s seat of the car is a pain, and driving is, too.

When Stan gets to the Shack, he considers just sleeping in the car rather than trying to get out and move around without hurting. It’s tempting. So tempting, he spends probably an hour just sitting in the car, staring at the building and not getting out. Only the thought that Saturdays are good for tourists gets him up and out of the vehicle, then it’s a slow trudge up to his brother’s empty house.

Inside and out, it’s looking less and less like Ford’s and more and more like… well, Dad’s, if Stan’s honest. Cheap shit everywhere. Stan’s set aside a room for himself, and that at least looks like him. He’s put up some posters. It’s not bad.

That’s not where Stan goes tonight though. Tonight, he walks to the study. Ford’s study. He hasn’t been in there in months, and when he opens the door, it shakes dust onto him. He sneezes, and ha, wow, that’s also not something he wants to do again for a couple days. Stan hadn’t ever really noticed before how many stupid things indirectly affected his ass, but now he’s getting well-acquainted with the list.

Sitting on the floor with his back against the door is definitely on that list, but Stan does it anyway. He’s still got the blanket wrapped around him, is still naked underneath it.

“So, how was your day, Stanley?” he says to himself, and if he puts just a little Ford into it, well shit. It’s not like there’s anyone here to notice.

**Author's Note:**

> The anon to blame knows who they are.
> 
> Dub-con: Stan's not restrained or forced into this by anyone other than himself and his own desperation. He does feel like crap afterwards, though.  
> There's also a non-graphic reference to a past blowjob used as a favor.
> 
> Implied Incest: Stan's brain wanders off to thoughts of Ford during the sex act, and it's ambiguous whether Stan wants that or not, but if I get around to writing a sequel, it definitely won't just be implied anymore.


End file.
